them. “Hello, Evan.” She ignored Maggie, coming forward with the sweeping stride of royalty. In reality, she had no royal blood, although at sixteen she had married a sixty-year-old Italian count. “Has your sister been found?”
“No, she has not. What are you doing here? This is a very difficult time, Bartolla.”
“I am aware of that! I must say, I never dreamed Francesca would jilt Hart. I have always thought that he would be the one to break her foolish heart—sooner than later.” She laughed, clearly amused by the events of the day. “I do not think Hart will be very happy with your sister when she returns, Evan.”
“You are wrong. He is smitten. Francesca has gotten herself into trouble, otherwise, there would have been a wedding today. Once she is found, I am certain they will plan another wedding day.” He realized he had come to despise her. He did not know how he would manage a relationship with her after their child was born.
Bartolla laughed again. “I know Hart very well, my dear, and he loves to hold a grudge. There will never be a wedding now.”
Evan realized she still hadn’t looked at Maggie even once—as if Maggie were not standing there with them. “I am not going to argue with you. I must get Mrs. Kennedy a cab.”
“Perhaps you should put her on the El, instead.” She smiled. “After all, that is the fare a seamstress can afford.”
He trembled with anger; Maggie touched his hand. He looked at her and she sent him a silent message with her eyes. She did not want him upset by the countess. He inhaled. “Bartolla, this is not the time to call. My family is very distraught. My mother is not receiving tonight.”
“Balderdash. I have brought cakes, Evan. I am so very fond of Julia and I wished to commiserate with her. Surely she needs a shoulder to cry on now.”
Evan knew she only wished to gloat.
Maggie tugged on his hand, clearly wanting to leave. Then Bragg appeared, his strides long and brisk. He and Evan went outside together as Bartolla swept into the other room in search of Julia.
“What do you really think?” Evan asked him tersely.
Bragg hesitated. “I think Francesca has gotten into some trouble. But I am going to find her, Evan. You may count on that.”
SHE WAS AFRAID to get out of the cab.
Hart’s home was a huge, neo-gothic mansion, consisting mostly of charcoal-hued stone. Recently built, it was a dozen blocks farther uptown from the Cahill home. He had no neighbors as of yet, and his grounds took up half a city block. Lawns and gardens surrounded the house, while a brick stable, servants’ quarters, tennis courts and a large pond were all set farther back on the grounds. A tall, wrought-iron-and-stone fence bounded the entire property.
Francesca did not move as the cabbie got down from the driver’s seat. The front gates were closed, although it was only six o’clock in the evening.
She trembled, fighting tears of exhaustion and dismay. She had spent the past thirty minutes traveling uptown, trying to imagine what the scene had been like at the church when the bridal march should have begun. Her mother would have been hysterical, her father grim. She couldn’t imagine the reaction of her guests.
Then she had tried to imagine what Hart’s mood had been.
The cabbie had opened one of the front gates, wide enough for his cab to go through. He climbed back into the driver’s seat, above her closed cubicle. She was filled with dread. She could no longer tell herself that Hart was worried about her. She simply knew him too well.
He had a terrible, explosive temper and a jaded, cynical worldview.
As the gelding trotted forward onto the graveled driveway, she gave in to her overwhelming distress. She always saw the glass as half-full; she always gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Hart never did either of those things. He trusted no one and nothing.
Except, he had come to trust her, hadn’t he?
It didn’t matter. She was afraid he was going to be very angry.
But it was even worse than that. She had glimpsed, just once or twice, a terrible vulnerability hiding behind the facade of arrogance and disdain, wealth and power. She hoped she hadn’t hurt him. She almost laughed, somewhat hysterically. How many times had she been warned that he would be the one to hurt her?
All relief at escaping the gallery had vanished. She had to explain to Hart what had happened, calm and reassure him, if need be, and then they had to go downtown and retrieve her portrait from the gallery. That last action could not wait! She hadn’t said a word to the roundsman, as she had not wanted him to go inside and look at it. When she had been leaving Waverly Place, she had seen him closing up the gallery, a single, small consolation. But now, in hindsight, she wished she had found an object with which to destroy the painting before leaving the gallery.
She paid the driver. The downstairs of the mansion was not lit up. Every now and then, Hart’s mood was so black that he dismissed his entire staff, only to wander about his mausoleum of a home by himself, a scotch in hand, admiring his art—and brooding. She would almost believe that he was doing that now, except that she happened to know he had guests. Rathe and Grace Bragg were staying with him indefinitely, as they built a home on the west side of the city. Just then, so was Nicholas D’Archand and two other Bragg siblings.
She had a terrible feeling, and she did not even try to shake it off as she climbed the front steps of the house, passing two huge limestone lions at the top of the staircase. On the roof, far above the front door, was a bronze stag. Before she even lifted the heavy brass knocker, the front door opened. She expected Hart to be standing there, but it was Alfred who let her in.
Francesca hurried inside. “How is he?”
Alfred’s eyes widened. “Miss Cahill! Are you all right?”
She knew she was dirty, disheveled and scratched from having to shatter the glass window. “I am not all right, but I do not need a physician—I need to speak with Hart.”
“Mr. Hart is in the library, taking care of business affairs.”
She started. “Surely you are not telling me that he has taken my failure to arrive at the church in stride?”
“I do not know how he is at the moment, Miss Cahill. He is excessively calm.”
She stared, shocked. She lowered her voice. “Is he drinking?” Hart often sought refuge in alcohol when under extreme emotional duress, in an attempt to avoid pain. She found him frightening when drunk, but not because he was inclined toward violence. She knew he would never lift a hand toward her. His mood was always the blackest and he was always the most self-deprecating when he was drinking himself into a state of oblivion.
“No.”
She prayed that this was a very good sign—that he wasn’t hurt—and that he would be eager to hear her explain what had kept her from their wedding. “Thank you,” Francesca said. “I can find the library myself, Alfred.”
He hesitated. “You look a sight, Miss Cahill. Do you want to freshen up?”
She shook her head and hurried down the hall, hoping she would not run into any of the family. The house was terribly quiet.
